


The Never-Made Pact

by withershins



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Multi, Witch Anna Kasterova, Witch Evgeni Malkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withershins/pseuds/withershins
Summary: The life and loves and magic of Evgeni Malkin.





	The Never-Made Pact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintroux/gifts).



Zhenya's first familiar came to him when he was seven years old and his magic was just beginning to stir.

It was a night when sleep stayed far away.  Tucked into bed, his brother already fast asleep on the other half of the room, he abandoned his reaching for sleep, too restless to do anything but listen to the night swirling through his town.  His fingers itched and fidgeted atop his bedspread.

When the moon poured in through his window, that was when he felt it—something wonderful and terrible creeping up his skin, starting at his toes.  Like spiders it crawled upwards, filling him with dread and delight. He felt like shouting, like that was the only way to release all the new feeling and knowing that was seeping into his bones, dripping through his thoughts, unspooling up his spine.

He clapped his hands over his mouth to keep his voice inside, but his heart still drummed loud enough to wake the entire apartment block.  And yet, his brother didn't stir. No knock came to their door.

How long he lay there, self-muffled, he couldn't say.  Long enough that the moon drifted out of view. Long enough that his eyes began to see new shapes in the darkness of his room: distorted, inhuman figures peering out from his closet, animal-like claws slowly inching up his walls, a spiky grin curling on his ceiling.  It did no good to close his eyes; the images behind his eyelids were scarier. He felt paralyzed, but every fiber of his body danced, frenzied, to a wild new song.

He was sure he was to be overwhelmed, his personhood overwritten and snatched away into the thrumming night—and then she came.

His first awareness of her was a weight against his legs, gentle but unignorable.  He looked down; a cat's black face and luminous eyes looked back.

 _Hello, little one,_ spoke a feminine voice through his thoughts, kind and firm.

He dragged his hands from his mouth.  Not taking his eyes from his visitor, he pushed himself up to a seated position in his bed.  His arms were trembling, but not with fear.

"Who are you?" he whispered.  His hands itched to reach out, but something within him told him to wait.

 _My name is Luba,_ the cat answered.  _I heard your heart call out, and I came._  She tilted her head.   _Do you know what I am?_

He opened his mouth to say he didn't, but he realized it wasn't true.  "You're a familiar, a spirit. Like the one who helps at the shop where Mama buys potions."

_That's right.  Do you understand what that means?_

His eyes grew wide.  "Am I…a witch?" he asked, hushed, midnight-reverent.

 _You are.  A very new one.  Your magic is only just finding you, and for a little while, it might seem very scary and overwhelming.  If you like, I can help you. I can show you how to use it, and how to keep yourself from being swept away by it._  Her tail twitched with amusement.   _Or maybe, a better way to put it—I can help you so you only get swept away the right amount._

"You'd be my familiar?"

_For a time.  Not forever. Six years, the growing years.  I can protect and guide you._

"I need help," he said.  "It's so much, inside me."

Something about her softened, he couldn't say what.

_I know, little darling.  That's why I'm here. Say yes, make the pact with me.  Then I can help._

"Yes," he said immediately.  "I want you to be my familiar.  Please."

_I will._

His hands somehow knew what to do.  Still shaking with all that was coursing within him, he held them outstretched, and he waited.  Luba, with a nimble bound, leapt into his arms. She nuzzled her head into his chest, then stretched up to give his nose a little kitten-lick.

This close, even in the dark, he could see her black fur was speckled with grey, particularly around her face.  She was silky and warm in his lap, and, already, some of the noise inside him was soothed. But not enough.

"How do I make it stop?" he asked.

 _We can't make it stop,_ she told him. _Magic has come for you, and it can't be turned away._

She jumped from his arms up to his shoulders and settled around his neck.

_Look again—to the darkness.  Slow your heart. Breathe deep into all your bones._

He did, not pausing to consider the strangeness.  He breathed slow and deep, until he felt each breath skim coolly along his bones.  He melted his heartbeat to dripping honey, thick and slow. And with little room left within him for fear, he lifted his eyes outwards.

Just beyond the foot of his bed, three shadowed shapes waited, vaguely human, heavy with darkness and patience.  One was familiar, but he couldn't say why. One was deeper than the others, but he couldn't say how. And one, the center figure, he couldn't quite look upon directly, his gaze glitching away every few seconds when he tried.

"Who are they?" he whispered to Luba.

 _Manifestations.  Representations. You'll learn, in time._ She nudged his cheek. _Watch._

He watched.  Each of the three figures laid at the foot of his bed an orb, not much bigger than the palm of his hand.  The orbs looked to be made of black glass, and they made no indentation of weight on his bedspread. They drew the eye, darkly gleaming, darkly promising.  When Zhenya managed to look away, to look back up again, the figures were gone, leaving the orbs behind.

 _Call for them,_ Luba instructed. _Call them to you._

Zhenya outstretched his hands.  One by one, the orbs lifted from the bed and floated to his cupped hands.  They were warmer than he expected, sleek and smooth, and as he cradled them close to his chest, he thought he caught a whiff of something sweet.

_You will have a use for these one day.  Until then, keep them safe._

"Where can I put them that's safe enough?"

_I'll show you tomorrow.  For now, beneath your pillow._

With ginger care, he slipped them beneath his pillow, right in the center.  "They won't be smashed?"

_No.  They'll be safe._

"Okay."  Zhenya, drowsy all at once, curled back into his covers, resting his head carefully atop his pillow.

"Can it hurt me?" he asked, as Luba tucked herself to his side in a warm little ball.  "Magic?"

_It can.  Pain is a needed part of life, and magic is life.  But you will heal, and you will grow stronger. You should fear your magic no more than you should fear living itself._

He yawned so wide it carried his next thought away before he could speak it.

_Are you ready to sleep?_

"No."

But his leaden, fluttering eyelids spoke a different answer.  Within five minutes, sleep came for Zhenya, so sneakily that he didn't think to resist it, and darkness claimed him for the rest of the night.

 

The first real spell Zhenya crafted, under the experienced eye of Luba, was a pouch for his orbs.  He was nervous—and excited—and half-sure that there had been some mistake and he wasn't a witch at all.  The overwhelming feelings of the night before had lessened in the morning light, and though there remained a buzzing beneath his skin, he fretted that it was caused by nothing but imagination.

 _A good spell is about proper ingredients,_ said Luba. _Soon, we'll go to the apothecary and experiment with the wares sold there, but for this spell, the ingredients should be gathered yourself._

They gathered herbs from his mama's kitchen drawer, fallen feathers from the side of the street, and fur from Luba's own tail.

_Good.  Now we need somewhere to cast.  Where do your instincts tug you?_

He wasn't sure exactly what she meant, but he felt a sudden urge to sit in the windowsill of their kitchen window, the one with the ledge that was just deep enough for a small boy and a cat to sit.  So that was where they went. They pulled the yellow floor-length drapes around them, hidden between cloth and glass with a view of the narrow alley below, and they laid out the gathered ingredients on the sill in front of Zhenya's folded up legs.

 _Pile the ingredients,_ instructed Luba, perched daintily on her side of the sill. _However feels right to you_.

Zhenya did, fur then herbs then feathers, feeling vaguely foolish.  "Now what?"

_Now speak the words.  This isn't a spell that you can be told the right words.  They come from you._

This was it—this was where it would become obvious it was all a mistake, and Zhenya didn't have magic after all.

"I...don't know what words," he admitted, ducking his eyes.  "I don't know what to say."

_You do.  Trust me, and trust yourself.  Believe and it will be true. Listen to your magic, then speak the words of containment._

"But…"

_Don't think about it; just try._

Zhenya did.  He listened for where he thought magic might lurk, were it truly within him, and he spoke the first words that came to his thoughts.

"For fear to face," he said slowly.  "For family to find. For...forever to follow."

He didn't have time to feel silly.  Magic sparked through his being, and his heart soared and laughed.  Beneath his hands, now outstretched, fur and herbs and feathers writhed together, mashing, warping, until he was looking at something entirely different: a small pouch on a string.

 _For the orbs you were given,_ said Luba. _Wear it around your neck.  You won't feel or see it unless you call for it._

He slipped the orbs within the pouch, then looped the string of it over his head and around his neck.  Within a moment, the pouch vanished from sight, the weight against his sternum following a moment later.

 _Every witch,_ Luba told him, staring up with unblinking eyes, _on the night they're joined to magic, is given a number of gifts.  These gifts, these orbs, are unique, and are to be used at pivotal turning points in your life.  You will know what to do when the time comes to use one. Until then, keep them safe in the pouch.  No one can take them from there but you._

"I'll keep them safe," Zhenya promised, then he nearly choked on his own tongue when the window drapes were swiftly yanked open, revealing the puzzled form of his mama.

"Zhenya?" she asked, wearing her usual concerned frown.  "What on earth are you doing in here?"

"Mama!" he exclaimed.  "I'm a witch! This is my casting spot!"

Her features relaxed to an indulgent smile.  "Well don't wear yourself out casting too many spells, alright?  I'll need your help later scrubbing the potatoes."

"Yes, Mama."

"Good boy."  She started to twitch the drapes back into place, but Zhenya reached out to halt her.

"Don't you want to say hi to Luba?"

"And who is Luba?"

"My familiar!"

His mama smiled.  "Oh, I see. What kind of familiar is Luba?"

Zhenya's expression puckered to a frown.  "She's a cat right now. Don't you see her?"

 _Your mother can't see me,_ said Luba, batting her idle tail. _Do you want me to show myself?_

"Yeah!"

His mama's relaxed, indulgent countenance transformed immediately to recoiling shock.  Faster than he could think, he was snatched up in her arms, clutched, though he was really too big to still be held this way.

"Oh my god!"

"Don't worry," he said into her hair.  "Luba is really nice! She's helping me with my magic."

"Oh my god," his mother said, much more faintly now.  She loosened her grip on him enough to look him in the face.  "Baby, Zhenechka, you're a witch?"

"I told you!  Luba came last night to help me.  You tell her, Luba."

Luba cocked her head. _Your mother isn't a witch.  I can't speak to her thoughts, like I can to you.  And my human form isn't for her eyes._

"Oh."  Zhenya frowned.  "Mama, Luba says she can't talk to you.  'Cause she's a cat, and you're not a witch."

"That's...okay, baby."  His mama swallowed. "Hello, Luba.  It's lovely to meet you." The weird note in her voice changed then, turned more like her regular voice.  "And...thank you for looking out for my son."

"She says you're welcome," Zhenya relayed Luba's answer.  "Mama, maybe I can learn some spells to help you! Then you'd have more time to take me skating.  That'd be neat, right?"

"Very neat," said his mama, kissing the side of his head, but she didn't take her eyes from Luba, and her expression was wary.  Zhenya noticed, and frowned.

 _Don't worry,_ said Luba.  _She's just had a very big shock.  Your family will get used to me in time.  Non-witches don't always know how to act around familiars._

"I'm...going to call your papa," his mama said.  "Stay inside for me for now, okay?"

"Okay, mama."

He hoped she got used to Luba soon.  He just wanted everyone he cared about to get along.

_Give it time.  You'll get there._

 

In the third year of their pact, when Zhenya was ten, he first saw Luba in her human form.

 _It's a special form, for most of us,_ she explained. _We keep it private—for family, close friends, and witches we have a strong pact with._

"Do we have a strong pact?  You and me?"

_Very strong.  I'm your familiar for your growing years—that's a very important pact._

They were outside, in a quiet, lonely park, autumn chill beginning to nip.  Zhenya's sneakers crunched loudly against the fallen leaves on the pavement, but Luba's paws padded noiselessly beside him.

 _Ready?_ she said, stopping.  Zhenya nodded.

The air around Luba shimmered, and then all at once she was a woman, in a sensible grey coat, with neat, silver hair and gentle lines around her mouth and eyes.  She reminded him of his school's librarian.

"Hello, Zhenya."  Her voice out loud was not quite the same as her voice inside his thoughts, but it was still unmistakably hers.

Zhenya beamed.  "Hi."

"Let's walk some more," she suggested, and the low heels of her shoes began to click.  "You're doing very well, with your magic. Have you given any thought to taking on a serious apprenticeship, when you're a little older?"

Zhenya obediently followed after.  "Maybe. I like making potions."

Luba grinned at him, a smile somehow familiar to him when he'd never actually seen it before.  "You like when they accidentally explode."

"Everyone likes when they explode."  He paused. "Except my mama."

"You know your witchcraft doesn't need to be how you make your living."

Zhenya knew the stats: seven witches currently playing in the NHL, and four in the KHL.

"I like hockey," he said in a small voice, gaze somewhere else.

"That much is obvious, little darling.  Your magic sings when you're on the ice."  She glanced down at him, expression nothing he could read.  "Witch apprenticeships start young. The serious ones are big commitments."

"I know," he said glumly.

"Don't feel like you have to get into one right away, or at all.  If your heart calls you to hockey, follow it."

His eyes darted up to hers.  "You wouldn't be disappointed?  If I don't do an apprenticeship?"

"You have a strong natural talent in magic, raw potential.  You don't need an apprenticeship to be a decent witch and keep your magic steady."

"Yeah?"

"Besides, I won't technically be your familiar then.  I shouldn't tell you what to do."

"Oh."

She nudged him gently.  "Zhenya. I won't be disappointed.  Whatever you decide."

He smiled and looked down.

 

When Zhenya was twelve, Luba took him to his first Gathering.

 _It's a time for all the witches and familiars in the area to get together and relax, to share and study magic,_ said Luba, as they crept through the midnight-black, unseen by anyone else in the streets.  _It can get...a little wild sometimes.  Magic is always wild, and it's dangerous to pretend for too long that it's not._

"Is it going to be like that tonight?"

_No, not so much tonight.  This one is to be...child-friendly._

"I'm not a child," he griped, in the way of preteens everywhere.  Luba just hummed at him.

 _This way,_ she said, an alleyway later.  _Watch your step._  Then she disappeared through what, to human eyes, would seem to be a solid brick wall.  Zhenya though could see the telltale glimmer of magic in the crevices between the bricks, beckoning in all who could see the invitation.  Nervous but hoping he hid it well, he stepped into the wall and through to the other side.

Luba leapt to his shoulder, a favorite perch. _Well?  What do you think?_

Wide-eyed, Zhenya took it in.  The place was modern and chic, glass and metal and dark red brick, and it looked like a bar, but brighter and more spacious than movies had led him to believe bars to be.  On the left wall, a sleek, repurposed bar counter stretched the length, and atop it bubbled seven copper cauldrons. The wall opposite was overtaken by floor-to-ceiling windows, which overlooked a view Zhenya had never seen before, and certainly never in this part of Magnitogorsk: black ocean waves beneath a sea of witnessing stars.  There were tables with food, tables with drink, tables with parchment and candles and jars of eyes, feathers, bones. A metal, spiral staircase led to a loft area above, from where voices and laughter drifted down.

Everywhere he looked were witches—bent over cauldrons, gathered around tomes, laughing and eating and so stuffed full of magic that everything pinched and shimmered at the edges.  Everywhere he looked were familiars, in more forms than he'd ever imagined. There were the usuals—cats and dogs and mice and snakes—and the unusuals—monkeys and bats and crabs and minks and one fat hedgehog gazing down on everyone from his perch atop his witch's head.

"I had no idea there were so many witches in Magnitogorsk," said Zhenya, amazed.

 _There aren't.  We are no longer in Magnitogorsk._ Her tail brushed soothingly against his cheek.  _Would you like to get some food?_

Feeling achingly shy, Zhenya nodded.

The evening passed mostly around them; they nibbled food from a quiet corner and watched the unfolding Gathering with avid eyes, on Zhenya's part, and staid amusement on Luba's.  There were several witches around his age present, some a little older, and they left space in their noisy laughter and sparking magic for him to join them. But he had no brashness in him tonight, and he stayed to his quiet corner.

From this observer position, it was easier the see the loosening and mingling of magic that occurred over the course of the Gathering.  Thin steam from the cauldrons spread throughout the space, carrying collective knowing and feeling to all it touched. A witch over there whispered secrets to a handful of bones; a witch over here shivered and turned to watch.  In the center of the room, two witches and a capuchin familiar drew symbols of power in chalk on the wood floor, and around them a hazy cloak of magic began to rise and spread.

The rafters were blanketed in a flock of avian familiars—jackdaws, ravens, owls, nightjars, swifts—holding lofty court and occasionally sweeping down to stir the steam and magic.  Once, a crow zipped down to a cauldron rim, preened out a loose feather, and dropped it within as it flew off. "Thank you!" called out the witch stirring the cauldron.

Zhenya's blood and bones zinged with responsive magic.  In his quiet corner he simmered, and watched, and asked Luba whispered questions, which she answered with patient affection.

Late into the night, when Zhenya's energy was starting to flag, he saw the moment a drowsy grey kitten familiar gave in to sleep, because it immediately shimmered and transformed into a curled-up boy not much younger than Zhenya.  A nearby witch laughed and knelt to shake the boy awake. He startled, and with pinkened cheeks, said, "Sorry, Mama," and hurriedly switched back to kitten form.

She scooped him up and called to a witch with his nose in a tome, "Darling, Petya is ready to leave, I think."  The two witches left with the familiar cuddled between them.

"He called her Mama?" Zhenya whispered at Luba.

_She is his mother, presumably._

Zhenya realized all at once he knew very little about familiars' lives.

 _Familiars can only be born to the joining of two witches,_ Luba answered what was unasked. _Every familiar in the world was born of witches._

"Oh.  I never knew that."

He peered around the room with sleep-droopy eyes, wondering how many familiars were here with their parents, how many with their bonded witch, and how many had come alone.

_Are you ready to go home?_

"Yes.  I think so."

The door let them out into the same alleyway they'd entered from, morning pink-grey light creeping through their city.

"Luba?" he asked as they wandered their way back home.  "At Gatherings, is it okay to talk to familiars who aren't yours?"

_Of course._

"Okay.  Next time we go, I want to be braver."

She purred and brushed against his calves.   _You will be, little darling._

 

Zhenya, thirteen years old, cried when it was time to say goodbye to Luba.  His mama cried too, later that night, hastily swiped away tears she thought he didn't see; he wasn't sure if she cried for his sorrow, or because of her own.

"You really have to go?" he asked Luba, plaintive, before she was gone.

_Our pact was for six years.  Six years have passed._

"We could make a new pact."

_You need space to grow and change as a witch, as a person.  The familiar who is right for you in your childhood years is not the one who will be right for teenage years, or your adult years.  We stay for as long as is needed, and you no longer need me._

"Yes I _do_."

She licked his cheek, lapping a tear away.

_You don't.  And you will have many wonderful pacts, with many wonderful familiars.  Your future is golden ahead of you._

He sniffled, not once caring how childish he sounded.  "Will I get to see you again?"

_Perhaps.  I hope so.  I'll miss you, Zhenya._

Then she was gone, and Zhenya was alone.

 

After Luba, Zhenya didn't seek out another familiar right away.  His magic was stable, steady, and he wasn't studying it so intently that he needed the support of a familiar.  The most he did was cleaning spells for his mama or a pain-lessening potion for his papa. He had no laborious spells he wanted to cast, no complicated potions to brew.  Mostly, he had hockey to play.

Witchcraft and hockey—his two loves.  It meant his presence in the apartment was always easily felt: omnipresent hockey gear airing in the bathroom, his cauldron constantly cluttering up the kitchen counter or sink, his unwashed base layers stinking up the laundry, his secondhand spellbooks and spell ingredients littered along the bookshelves.  He grew stronger in hockey, and his witchcraft stayed steady. He had no need for a familiar.

Then in one of his spellbooks, shortly after he turned sixteen, he came across a potion that could help arthritis—and he thought of his mama's hands, his papa's knees.  The potion was advanced beyond his skill alone, but he thought he could manage it with the help of a familiar.

So he lit a ring of candles on his bedroom floor, sat himself in the center with the spellbook on his lap, and called out with his heart: _I need help with a potion, I need to brew this potion for my parents, I need help._

It wasn't long at all before he felt a presence and opened his eyes.  On the floor in front of him was a slender, black snake, no thicker around than a string of pearls.

 _Hey!_ a teenaged boy's voice spoke to his thoughts. _I'm Ivan.  You need some help with a potion?_

"Um...yes," Zhenya said hesitantly.  "This one," he pointed to them open page on his lap.  "You can help me?"

_Definitely!  I know I'm young and kinda inexperienced still, but I promise I'm great with potions.  My mama owns a potion shop, and both my parents did their apprenticeships in advanced potion work, so this is like, my specialty.  I can do this._

Zhenya nodded.  "I believe you. I'm Evgeni.  You're willing to accept a pact for however long it takes to finish this potion?"

 _The brewing weeks,_ Ivan agreed. _I accept._

Zhenya held his hand to the floor.  Ivan, cool and smooth, wound around his wrist like a bracelet.

_Awesome!  Okay, show me your set up.  What material of cauldron do you have?_

 

Zhenya's family took the presence of a new familiar more or less in stride.  They knew he was working on a difficult potion, because the back left burner of the stove was constantly occupied with his cauldron, and usually the potions he brewed only took a matter of hours, occasionally days.  This one would take three and a half weeks.

Ivan quickly proved his competence and took to bossing Zhenya around like he'd been taking lessons from Zhenya's mama.

_Softer magic, soften it!  And keep stirring—full counterclockwise circles, spoon at ninety degrees, exactly.  Ooh, and grab the lizard scales! We'll need them in a minute._

Zhenya's family got used to seeing him bent over the stove, muttering grumpily at the snake coiled around his wrist.  The potion was arduous, but Ivan, for all Zhenya's grousing, was both helpful and actually pretty pleasant to work with.

In the periods of rest, when the potion needed nothing but time to simmer, Ivan would come to the rink with him and hang out on the boards by the bench, wrapped in a scarf with a hot water bottle to keep his little reptile body warm, while Zhenya practiced.  Ivan was only bossy where potions were concerned, and he was easily impressed by even the most basic of Zhenya's skills on the ice. Zhenya flourished in showing off.

He didn't expect to ever see Ivan in human form, with their pact only a few weeks long.  But one day when they were walking back from the rink, Zhenya's gear bag over one shoulder and his hockey sticks in the opposite hand, Ivan said, _Hey, Zhenya, do want some help carrying your sticks?_

Considering Ivan was currently hitching a ride wrapped around said sticks, Zhenya thought he was justified in the dubious,  judgmental look he shot him.

_No, I mean—here._

Ivan uncoiled and slithered to the ground, and from where he landed a teenage boy straightened up.  He looked about Zhenya's age, and he was long and skinny, even longer and skinnier than Zhenya, who was embarrassingly gangly.  His hair was blond, his smile shy.

"Oh—oh!"  Zhenya looked around the street, currently empty but not liable to stay that way for long.  "What if someone sees you?"

"It's fine, they won't know I'm a familiar.  It's not as big a deal if I'm seen like this by people who don't know what I am."

His tone was shaky bravado, but Zhenya accepted it.  His eyes, wintertime blue, looked to Zhenya with such cautious happiness that it tugged at his chest, making him feel expansive and pink-blush pleased.

He let Ivan carry his hockey sticks all the way home, taking them back at the doorstep so he could return to snake form.

When the potion was complete and their pact fulfilled, Ivan turned to his human form to say goodbye, and Zhenya kissed him to say thank you.  They were both still blushing madly when Ivan disappeared.

 

January 4, 2005 — Grand Forks

World Junior Championships

Zhenya knew who Sidney Crosby was.  He knew every witch in the NHL. Crosby wasn't NHL, not yet, but he was good enough there was no question where he was headed in seven months: to whichever team got the number one draft pick.  The Penguins had a chance at that draft pick. Evgeni had a chance to be teammates with Crosby one day, though it was slim. He wondered what it might be like to play with another witch on the same team.

Whatever the future held, today Crosby was an opponent, fellow witch or not.  Had the game ended differently, Zhenya might have still tried to speak with him afterwards, stumble through broken English and awkward compliments.

A galling 6-1 loss left no room for that, however.  Zhenya couldn't even meet Crosby's eyes in the handshake line.

 

Crosby did become a Penguin, but Zhenya didn't join him.  He stayed in Magnitogorsk—but he watched games he could, for the Penguins, and for the riveting thrill of Crosby's workhorse hockey.

Crosby was a witch.  But he didn't look like magic on the ice, dizzying and reality-defying, the way some witches did.  He looked superhuman: human but better, human but perfected. Zhenya was happily enthralled.

He gradually become aware of a subtle difference in the way the North American commentators referred to Crosby's magic that didn't seem to be present when they spoke of other witches in the league.  Their tones bore a strange hesitance or uncertainty, like they didn't quite know the right words to use. It was puzzling, but Zhenya didn't know enough English to understand even half of the words they were saying, let alone understand the nuances of why Sidney Crosby's magic made them more uncomfortable than that of Pavel Datsyuk or Patrice Bergeron or Henrik Lundqvist.

Zhenya didn't worry about it too much.  It was Crosby's hockey he was most interested in, not his magic.

There weren't words for the breadth of how much he wanted to play hockey beside Crosby.  But he was still on the wrong side of the globe.

 

In Helsinki, Finland, not even a month after he left his teen years behind, Zhenya called for his third familiar.

His agent, Barry, wasn't a witch, but he was respectful of the ways.  In their hidden-away hotel room, he sat unobtrusively in the corner chair and watched while Zhenya lit a ring of candles on the floor—candles blue for silence, blue for secrets.

When all was ready, Zhenya sat in the center of the ring and closed his eyes.  He let Barry and the room melt away to somewhere else, until all he could picture in his mind's eye was the space within the ring.  When he opened his eyes again, he saw this had become reality: he sat in a circle of light, and all else was shrouded in shadows and irrelevance.

With his heart, he called out loudly and clearly, focusing on what he needed.  He asked for willing help with all the desperation and determination he carried inside.

Eventually, into the stillness of passing time, the space in front of Zhenya warped and twisted, and there materialized a woman, tall, wearing smart business attire and unapologetic black heels.  Her blond hair was pinned in a knot at her nape, and she wore thin glasses above a generous smile.

 _Hello,_ she said, her smile unmoving, and he realized she spoke directly to his thoughts.

"You're...a woman?" he stammered, not at his best when confused.  He clambered to his feet.

 _Yes,_ she agreed. _Are you confused by my gender, or my human appearance?_

"Human," said Zhenya, turning his best shade of red.  This was—a shock of intimacy.

 _I prefer this form,_ the woman said. _If it makes you uncomfortable, I can choose another._

"No, no, it's fine.  Whatever you prefer. I'm just not quite...used to…"  He gestured vaguely in her direction. Amusement bloomed in her features.

_You're very sweet.  My name is Essi._

"Evgeni."

_Well Evgeni, would you like to tell me a little of the help you need?  From what I heard—a short-term pact, something about escape?_

Zhenya explained as best he could: the contract he was pressured to sign, his longing for the NHL, his withheld passport.

"I just need to get to Pittsburgh," he said.  "Then my agent can take care of the legalities to make sure I can stay.  But I have to get there in time for training camp."

_You're thinking of a cloaking spell.  To lay low, before you can go to the US._

"Yes.  My plane leaves in three days.  I need to make sure my team doesn't find me before then.  They'll hire a tracking witch once they realize I'm gone, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough...alone…"

_I understand.  I offer you a three-day pact, the hiding days.  I'll be your familiar. I can boost and steady your magic._

"I accept," said Zhenya, a weight from his shoulders.  He held out a hand, which Essi warmly shook. Then, in a blink, she disappeared and reformed on the wrist of Zhenya's outstretched hand, now in the spindly form of a wolf spider.

" _Ack_ ," he rasped, not quite able to stop himself.

 _Trust me, I know,_ she said dryly, sounding extremely amused.   _Not the most attractive form out there._

He chuckled and, gently, transferred her to his shoulder.

"You're beautiful," he promised.  "When do we start?"

She sounded sharp-toothed and satisfied when she answered: _Tonight.  We'll send your agent on a supply run, and then we can begin.  Together, we can weave a cloak not the strongest bloodhound could sniff through._

 

Fittingly, the cloaking spell Zhenya cast with Essi's help felt very like weaving a giant spiderweb.  Golden threads of magic spun out from his fingertips and sank deep into the hotel walls, gleaming with protection.

 _Good,_ said Essi, examining the work when it was done, eight-legged scuttling along the walls.  She had not yet returned to her human form while Barry was in the room, but that was the norm Zhenya knew. _A strong weave, that should keep us hidden.  I'll help you monitor to make sure it doesn't weaken over the next few days, but the foundation is strong._

The days passed slowly.  Barry left intermittently to get them food, but Zhenya had to stay hidden.  The waiting was taxing. Every few hours, Essi would call to him and point to a section of spell that needed strengthening, and he'd pour out his magic again.  By the end of the third day he was completely drained, but the cloaking spell had done its job.

"Thank you," he told an equally exhausted Essi.  Barry was out readying their ride to the airport, so she was in her human form.  "I couldn't have done this without you."

 _I'm so glad I could help_ , she said, and hugged him goodbye. _Say hello if you're ever in Finland again._

He promised to, and they said goodbye.  The hotel room was empty when Zhenya shut the door behind him.

The cab ride to the airport was mercifully short and uneventful.  It was as Zhenya was stepping out to the curb, backpack swinging up to his shoulder, that unease struck—a twist in his gut, a prickle down his spine.

"Wait."  Something was—no.

His heart leapt, shouted with fear.  Danger was here.

"Evgeni?" Barry asked, eyes sharp.  The cab pulled away.

There were tiny hooks all over his skin, tugging, shallow, many bites.  Years ago, Luba had described to him the feeling of another witch anchoring an unwanted spell to him, and it had sounded a lot like _this._

He'd thought if they made it to the airport, he was safe, but this wasn't safe.  He wasn't prepared to cast anything but a weak cloaking spell, a shadow of the spell he'd cast with Essi's help over the hotel room.  This was—the most scared he'd ever been.

No, that wasn't true: the most scared he'd ever been was the night he joined to his magic, before Luba, before he understood.  A memory sparked—three figures, three orbs, three gifts for when he'd need them.

His bones knew, and whispered: he needed an orb now.

As though in a daze, he called for his pouch.  Around his neck it appeared, and he slipped his fingers within.  One orb met his reach, and he pulled it out.

It was difficult to look at it for more than a moment, a darkness that drove the eye away, like the figure that had gifted it to him all those years ago.

Letting instinct move his bones, he held the orb to his lips and bit it in half.  Though it felt like glass in his hands, to his teeth it yielded as though he were biting into the flesh of fruit.  He swallowed one half, then the other.

Zhenya's head nodded to Barry that everything was fine, and his feet began confidently striding forward into the airport.  But Zhenya was far away. Only distantly was he aware of his body's movements, winding through the airport without him; his thoughts, his soul, were somewhere else, caught in all-encompassing darkness, suffocating, unanchored.

He didn't know.  He didn't know. The forces of the world were more than he'd ever comprehend, always a bigger loop to the pattern, always a smaller manifestation of the cycle.  He was a blind nothing, strolling through existence, caught in rhythms too large for his brain to wrap around.

And he wanted to willingly step into more unknowns?  To Pittsburgh, to English, to North American hockey, to expectations he had no way of knowing he could fulfill.  Fear gripped and paralyzed him.

Russia was known.  The KHL was known. Magnitogorsk was known.  He could be safe.

"These were once unknown too," he said, and, in the darkness that surrounded him, he took a step forward.

"I can adapt to challenges," he said with another step.  "I can learn."

Each step eased fear's hold.  The darkness never lessened.

"I want to try.  I can try."

Another step.

"I can act with what I know and adjust to what I don't."

Step.

"I don't need to know the end."

When he came back to his body, he was in his seat on the plane, his backpack between his feet, Barry at his side.  The ground was far below.

 _Thank you_ , he said to the universe, but he may have just said it to himself.  It was the same either way.

 

* * *

 

 

Sidney Crosby was not a witch.  Zhenya discovered this the night he met him properly, with handshakes and eye contact, and Sidney Crosby looked him directly in the face and said directly into his thoughts, _Hi, I'm Sid.  I'm so happy you're here at last._

Sidney Crosby was a familiar.

 

 _So, just wanted you to know, I don't do pacts,_ Sid told Zhenya, strapping on his shin pads. It was the first day of training camp, and Zhenya was only early because Gonch was, and Gonch was his ride.  Also, Gonch had lied about what time Zhenya needed to be ready to go.

 _Not during the season,_ Sid continued.  _There's no way to play hockey and be someone's familiar.  Sometimes during the summer, if there's a witch who needs something really short-term, but other than that, no._

Zhenya shrugged.  After the night he'd met Sid, he'd done research about those rare familiars who didn't live the traditional familiar ways, and he was determined to be chill.  "That makes sense."

_I'm pretty decent with charming objects, that sort of thing, though.  If you...ever wanted to ask a question, or something._

Zhenya glanced over to him.  "Sid. I don't...have any expectations for you, as a familiar.  We're both here for hockey. You don't need to fill any role you don't want to."

Sid blinked at him, studying him.  His eyes were always expressive, deeply alive, but he was good at masking that expressiveness into something unreadable.

 _Okay.  Yeah, for sure._  Sid started pulling his socks over his shin pads.  A small smile was curling the side of his mouth, barely visible.

Gonch, from his own stall, was frowning at them.

"Is everything alright?" he called in Russian.  Sid didn't look up.

"It's fine," Zhenya answered.  "We were making sure we were on the same page."

"Sid, you understand Russian?"

Sid looked up at his name.  "What?"

"He understands Russian only when a witch speaks it," Zhenya answered, and Sid nodded.

"Yeah, sorry, man," he said in English.  "I can speak English, French, and witch. That's pretty much it."

Gonch's frown didn't clear, but it eased.  He turned back to his gear.

"You wish you could speak French," Max Talbot chirped lazily, having walked into the locker room on the tail of Sid's sentence, and that was the end of it.

At least until the team stuck their noses in, as Sid seemed to have known inevitably would happen.  Then Sid had to explain, with what was obviously a prepared answer, that yes, Sid was a familiar without a witch and Geno was a witch without a current familiar, but they weren't going to bond.  Then he efficiently ended the conversation by asking who wanted to stay after practice to help him work on faceoffs.

 

Outside of being teammates, Sid and Zhenya didn't really hang out.  They got along fine, there wasn't anything wrong, but Zhenya had Gonch for when he wanted to be easily understood and Max, oddly enough, for when he was feeling social, and Sid had...whoever Sid had.  Usually French Canadians. The two of them had hockey and magic in common—hockey was where they connected. That was easy; that was effortless. That was the zing of eye contact across the ice, the faith of learning how each other's hockey thought and breathed, the euphoria of crushing together in a celly.  It worked the way things worked when people called something meant to be.

It was three years, one Cup, before Zhenya saw Sid's animal form.  It happened mostly on accident.

Zhenya had been slow to dip into Pittsburgh's magical community, when he'd first arrived to America.  At first, it was because he was focusing on hockey and living in a new country, and there was only so much room on his plate at a time.  Then, it was due to lack of desire. He practiced his witchcraft, bought a house with enough space to dedicate an entire floor to it, but he felt prickly and defensive whenever he thought about connecting his magic with anyone else.

In the fall of '09, when the season was new, he woke up one day and felt a nudge in his chest, a thought to reach out.  He knew his magic enough to listen. When he walked the leaf-strewn streets, he watched for the signs, and within a few days he found the invitation for a Gathering.

American Gatherings were not Russian Gatherings, this much was immediately apparent by the wave of English that greeted his entrance.  But witches were witches and magic was magic, and Zhenya knew the steps. He gravitated over to an open cauldron, smiled at the two witches collaborating over its steam, and stitched himself into the weave of this night's magic.

He was in the middle of arguing happily with Sal, red-haired and very mistaken in her opinions, on the merits of frog foot versus toad, when a rook, with feathers shimmery purplish-black and a sharpish, pale beak, swept down on the counter next to him.  Zhenya paused, but when the rook said nothing, he continued his argument until he'd won. Sal might have disagreed, but Zhenya still had won.

Into the quiet of Sal rolling her eyes and walking away, Sid's voice said, _Hey, G._  And the rook cocked his head, looking straight at him.

"What the fuck," said Zhenya.

The rook—holy shit, _Sid_ —somehow looked amused, despite wearing a bird-face.

_You forgot I have an animal form._

Zhenya, after so many years, had absolutely forgotten Sid, technically, had an animal form.  In his defense, Sid never wore it around the team, never talked about it, nothing.

"No," Zhenya blustered forwards.  "I didn't forget. I've just never seen it, I didn't know what you looked like."

 _Right, of course,_ Sid agreed in the way of someone indulging a lie.

"I didn't know you came to Gatherings," Zhenya deflected.  "I didn't think it was your sort of thing."

Rook-eyes blinked at him.  Zhenya re-evaluated.

Sid was a social creature; that much was obvious to anyone who'd been on a team with him.  He thrived in a team setting, liked the way it tied everyone together and gave them common ground and purpose.  He liked being a piece within a community, a cog in the wheel. The only reason Zhenya had never thought this might apply to Sid's magical life as well was because Sid had never shown he _had_ a magical life.

"Okay," Zhenya said.  "I see your point."

 _I like magic.  I like that I'm a familiar.  I just don't take on a lot of pacts._  Sid paused.   _Is this the first Gathering you've to come to since you've been a Penguin?_

"I go to Gatherings in Russia, in the summer."

_Oh, okay, that's good.  Do you want me to introduce you to anyone?  Everyone here's pretty great._

Everyone was pretty great, and Sid, apparently, knew them all.  He asked after people's families, current projects, apprenticeships, their shops and livelihoods.  By the end of the night, Zhenya had spoken to more witches and familiars than he ever had in his life.

 _If you come again, we should go together,_ Sid said as they were leaving. _This was fun._

"Sure," Zhenya said.  "I'll let you know next time I want to kill myself with socializing."  But he was going to come again, with Sid, soon, and they both knew it.

 

The next time, Zhenya set up camp by the cauldrons and only spoke to a handful of people, while Sid hopped around from group to group to Zhenya to group.  Magic shimmered and blended and tied everyone's innards together. And as the night grew wilder, the magic deeper, Zhenya watched with hooded, magic-wild eyes as Sid's beak grew sharper, his eyes beadier, his essence free and dangerous and not solely his own.

When the Gathering was done, and Sid was bloody-beaked and contented, Zhenya left with Sid perched on his shoulder.

 

Over the years, Zhenya entered into a handful of pacts with a handful of familiars, always short-term, always in summer, always in Russia, where he had time to focus more deeply on his magic.  It had nothing to do with the fact that, were he to call for a familiar in Pittsburgh, Sid would be close enough to hear it.

 

Zhenya met Anna Kasterova in summer, at a Gathering where the magic was heady and sweet like spiced rum, and he couldn't stop thinking about her until fall.  Fall, when hockey and Sid and Pittsburgh returned.

Anna was the most powerful witch he'd ever met, and the most beautiful, but she only clued the world in to the beautiful half.  She explained it to him once: her career was an unusual one for a witch, and if the public knew she could do more than flashy, trivial spells and innocent-babygirl potions, she would lose their fickle favor.  But he knew she could turn a skyscraper to diamond if she chose.

He wrote her an email, after meeting her.  He wrote her a text. They talked and shared and learned each other.  They went on dates, when they were on the same continent, and they fell asleep talking to each other on the phone when they weren't.  The first time they fucked they accidentally lit the sheets on fire. He fell in love with her magic and then her legs and then her wicked-sweet soul, but he thought her, ultimately, out of his league.  He felt as though she was always dancing a step out of reach, a commitment away from serious—not that he blamed her. He wasn't blind to what a serious relationship with him would mean. He knew what he could offer and what he couldn't, and he couldn't decide for her if that matched what she wanted.

What he could do was buy her uncountable numbers of roses and whisper his attention into every strand of her hair.

She came to Pittsburgh one March during a long homestand to watch Zhenya play.  She and Sid met and proceeded to, quietly, get along famously, while Zhenya watched them with happy fretfulness.  They sat with their legs crossed towards each other and their heads bent close, Anna lilting in relieved Russian and Sid speaking straight to her thoughts.  Flower made jokes about Sid stealing his girl, but Zhenya never worried about that. Anna made her own choices, and if there was stealing to be done, she would be the one doing it.

He trusted her to be mature and honest and brave, and he tried his best to be the same.  He trusted Sid to be Sid at his best: thoughtful, perceptive, and decent to the point of absurdity.  If other people couldn't see there was no cause to worry about the friendship between his girlfriend and his captain, that wasn't his problem.  His only worry had been that Sid and Anna wouldn't like each other at all.

What Zhenya didn't tell anyone, except his own blood and bones, was that when Anna smiled at him with the glow of warmth and affection and still-unspoken love, he recognized it because it was how Sid had been looking at him for years.

 

The first time Anna told Zhenya she loved him, she said it the same way she spoke her spells: deliberately and with full responsibility of the consequences.  She said it as a choice, not an ailment.

"I don't know how this is going to work out," she admitted, without shame, tucked in his arms.  "I'm still not sure who we're meant to be to each other."

"We can only be ourselves," he answered her.

"We all have many selves, many versions."

He kissed the back of her neck.  "No. I think we all have one self.  Fractured, reactive. You make me feel whole."

"Are you saying I complete you?" she asked, amused, but he heard a warning note in her tone.

"I'm saying you inspire me to try to be my whole self, unfractured.  And I love you to my core."

"Do you always love so recklessly?"

"Love's only reckless when you offer it with expectations."

She softened in his hold, saying nothing more.  But he could hear the click of her thoughts turning, turning, turning.

 

Anna's cauldrons and candles and jars of ladybug wings fit neatly next to Zhenya's, like there'd always been a space prepared for them.  They had to buy three new bookcases to fit all her spellbooks, but Zhenya had always thought that wall looked too empty, anyway.

 

The summer that the two of them committed to a higher responsibility to each other, Anna said to Zhenya, "You know we need to talk about the Sid thing, right."

Zhenya scrubbed his hand over his face.  He felt squirrelly, and he recognized it. "The Sid thing," he repeated.

"Yes."

"I know."

"So you know he's in love with you."

"I know."

She met his eyes in the bathroom mirror of their seaside hotel, pausing her mascara applicator inches from her face.  He was sitting on the bathtub rim, sulkily procrastinating rubbing on sunscreen.

"Zhenya," she said pointedly, and he made himself remember what higher responsibility meant.

"I love him too," he admitted to them both.  "But it never felt right to pursue anything. You know how I am about following my gut."

"I know."

He rolled the unopened sunscreen from one hand to the other.  "What do you think about Sid?"

"I think he's an idiot," she said immediately.  "And I still want to throw a blanket over him when he walks around in public in human form.  And I adore him."

"And?"

"And if it ever feels right to you, let me know, and we'll talk."

"I don't know if Sid's really a relationship kind of guy."

Her lips curled.  "Sid's not a _romantic_ kind of guy.  He's absolutely a relationship one.  Think about it—when it comes to working as a group towards a common purpose, Sid has zero ego.  That's exactly what you want in a relationship."

"But I _like_ romance."

She put down her mascara, then took the sunscreen bottle from his hands.  Her eyes, as she smiled down at him, knew him to his marrow. "Take off your shirt, baby," she said, pouring sunscreen into her palm.

He shivered and complied.

 

Sid came to their wedding, pink-cheeked and glowing with happiness for them.  He spent too much time chatting with the other familiars in attendance, the only human form among them, until Zhenya and Anna stole him away and both danced with him twice.  His pink cheeks bloomed to red after his second dance with Anna, and Zhenya couldn't wait to hear why. Anna refused to share, however, until he was deep in their honeymoon bed and she, astride his body, teased him with the knowledge that Sid blushed rose petal red when his ass was grabbed.

It still didn't feel _right_ , the thought of pursuing Sid, but it no longer felt wrong.

 

At the first Gathering the three of them attended together—Zhenya, Anna, and Sid—the magic grew so free and heated that an orgy, not unheard of at Gatherings, broke out in one of the back rooms.  The three of them—Zhenya, Anna, Sid—didn't venture that far into the Gathering, but Anna lounged on Zhenya's knee as he traced rolling, curving symbols up her thigh, and they both watched with heavy eyes as Sid's shadow writhed and danced on the walls, echoing his agitated flight.

 

Zhenya and Anna both knew they wanted children.  They agreed on timing, agreed on approximate number, even agreed on names.  What they couldn't get to agree was their biology. After months of trying, they turned to magic.

There was no question Anna would cast the spell.  The only question was which fertility spell would be best, and, predictably for the two of them, they went with the most powerful.

Anna didn't have a long-term familiar, she was like Zhenya that way, but there was one, a fox named Meg, who frequently took short-term pacts with her when she had something particularly tricky.  Zhenya and Anna both assumed, as Anna called out for help, it would be Meg who answered once again.

It was Sid.

It took them both a moment to recognize him, perhaps because they'd only ever seen his rook form at Gatherings.  When it clicked, Anna's hand shot out and clasped Zhenya's arm in an iron grip.

"I know," he said, choked.

 _Hey, guys,_ said Sid into both their thoughts.

"Sid."

_So, yeah, this only has to be awkward if we make it awkward, right?  I'm here to help._

"You want to help us with the fertility spell," said Anna, voice tightened and hoarse.

_Right.  Well, in a way._

"You want to make a pact with us?"

Sid ruffled his wings. _Uh, well, actually, no.  Look. I came here to tell you—the problem isn't going to be fixed by magic.  Not how you're thinking, at least. This is a turning point._

"We're trying to have a child," Zhenya rubbed a frustrated hand through his hair, "of course it's a turning point."

 _No,_ Sid stressed.  _This is a_ **_turning point_** _._

"Oh my god," Anna said suddenly.  "Zhenya, babe, oh my god."

She clutched her chest, and Zhenya realized she was clutching a pouch on a string around her neck.

"We're such idiots," she told him.  "That's what the itch at the back of my head has been."

Zhenya summoned his own pouch, and she was right: one of his gifts was calling for him.

 _Anyway, yeah,_ Sid said, and his bird-throat made a noise that sounded eerily like an awkward human cough. _You guys don't actually need a spell.  You don't need a familiar for this. So I'll just—you know, good luck, and I'll get out of your hair—_

"Don't go _anywhere_ ," Anna snapped, and Zhenya thought Sid obeyed out of sheer surprise.  She pulled from her pouch a small, forest-green orb, and swallowed it whole.  Her eyes grew wide. _"O_ _h_."

Zhenya followed her lead.  The orb he withdrew was warm, and somehow familiar—a memory in his bones.  He bit into it and swallowed it in halves.

Warmth engulfed him, safety, comfort, love.  He heard a heartbeat that thrummed through his whole body, distant voices calling.  He found Anna's hand, and drew her in, forehead to forehead. The auras around them joined and blossomed, creating something new.

"Anya," he whispered.

"I know," she breathed.  "I know."

"I want this."

"I want this too.  We're going to have it, Zhenya, this is going to be ours.  We're going to grow this _family_."

When they came back to themselves, determined and decided, Sid was gone.

 

Sid was elusive in the weeks after Anna's pregnancy was announced.  He did nothing he could be confronted with, but he was suddenly that much harder to pin down alone, always sliding his eyes away and smiling too much and so busy being sociable that he couldn't actually be spoken to.

And then one day, during a lull in a team dinner, while Zhenya was picking over his asparagus and Anna was absently rubbing soothing symbols into her stomach, Sid sat down on Anna's other side of his own volition and said, in a voice only they could hear, _You guys do know that your baby is going to be a familiar, right?_

Anna's stare was withering, but she let Zhenya answer: "Of course, Sid."

_Okay, well, just wanted to check.  Witches sometimes forget—_

"The baby will have you to teach them all about it, right?" Anna interrupted.  "Being a familiar."

Sid swallowed.  "Of course," he said, hoarse and out loud and English and dumb-faced.  "Of course they will."

"Anya," Zhenya said quietly, gut tight, heart too large.  "It feels right."

"Mm, I think so too.  And I don't think we need to talk about it after all.  Right, baby?"

"Right."

 _I'd like to talk?_  said Sid to their thoughts, collecting himself and clearly confused.

"You can talk tonight," Anna said, "when you come to our house, and take off your shoes, and sit on our couch, and let us tell you how much we love you and want to fuck you and want you to join our lives more deeply.  That's when you can talk."

"What the hell are you three saying over there?" Flower asked, across the table.  "If you're going to tease Sid, at least do it in English so the rest of us can enjoy."

Sid, bright pink, turned into a rook in full view of his entire team for the first time in his life and flew straight out the door.

"We'll see you tonight, Sid!"  Anna called after him. She turned to Zhenya.  "Do you think he was hard? I think he was hard."

Zhenya was half-hard himself, caught up in arousal and hope, so he, wisely, just patted her knee, ducked his head, and shoved mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Seriously," said Flower, staring.  "What are you guys talking about?"

Anna just smiled.

 

They didn't make it to the couch that night, after all.  They made it halfway there, then Sid squared his shoulders and said, _Look, before we go any further, can you just—this isn't a joke, right?_

And Anna rolled her eyes and pushed him against a wall, saying, "You were given a very clear itinerary for this evening, or did you forget?"

"It isn't a joke," Zhenya pitched in, but considering Sid had just gotten tugged into a lush, achingly sensual kiss with Anna, he probably got the picture.

"Zhenya," Anna breathed when she finally released Sid's slick, pink lips.  "Come taste."

Zhenya needed no urging.  He crowded his body softly to theirs, his front to Anna's back, and she tilted her head back onto his shoulder.  Sid looked to her exposed throat, then to Zhenya's eyes.

"Sid?" Zhenya asked.

Sid's most stupid, most crooked smile bloomed. _Come taste,_ he said.

So Zhenya did.  Until Sid was moaning low in his throat and Anna was getting restless, one hand curled in Zhenya's hair, one hand tugging Sid's.

"Bed," she demanded.  "Bed, then sleep, then talking."

"Yes," growled Zhenya.  Sid rested his head against the wall and laughed.

 _You know what, I think like this itinerary even better than the first_.

 

Luckily, they didn't set the sheets on fire this time.  They only melted the bedside lamp.

 

Zhenya woke first, strangely, before even the sun.  Sid's hip was under his hand, and the arch of Anna's foot was tucked between his toes.  Unable to return to sleep, he wandered to the bathroom, then to the bedroom window, and then back to the foot of the bed itself.

Sid and Anna were curled towards each other, legs tangled at the ankles.  Sid's hair was a bird's nest, and Anna's sleep shirt was rucked and twisted.  He loved them so much it hurt.

 _Hey,_ Sid's mental voice drifted to him, and he realized Sid's eyes were slitted open.  _Morning._

Zhenya smiled, first-light soft.  "Morning," he whispered.

_Coming back to bed?_

"Can't sleep."

_So come cuddle, dumbass._

There was no seamless way to get a body of his size back into an occupied bed, but Zhenya managed with minimal jostling, until he was tucked once more against Sid's back.  He stroked Sid's hip with his thumb.

"I, uh.  I love you, you know."

 _I know,_ Sid said.  _I love you too.  For a long time._

"I know."

"You both are idiots," came Anna's voice from the other side of Sid, groggy but awake.

_I know._

"Well, so long as you know."  Then she tugged them both closer, until they were all nothing but a pile of sleep-warm limbs.  "I'm adjusting the itinerary. More sleep, then coffee, then talking."

_Acceptable._

Anna and Sid dropped back off again, easily as sliding into a bath, but sleep remained elusive for Zhenya.  He dreamt, though, half-awake, hazy visions that might have been magic: three bodies entwined, joined magic dancing; three bodies waiting, a growing womb; three bodies waking to a child's cry.  And then, finally, there was the clearest vision: morning coffee, while Evgeni stirred scrambled eggs, and Anna hummed and twirled her mug, and Sid whispered to a feather-light white moth perched on his finger, "Nikita, we love you so much."

It sounded like a pretty good future to him.


End file.
